The Consequences of That Night (At His Service #6)(53)

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “When he broke into our wedding, I thought it was a sign, the only way to save us both from a life of misery—”

“Won’t you shut up, even for a minute?” Since his finger wasn’t working, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his own. He felt her intake of breath, felt her surprise. He kissed her in the moonlight, embracing her with deep tenderness and adoration. Her lips were sweet and soft like heaven. When he finally pulled away, his voice was hoarse.


“All this time, I was afraid of loving anyone again. Because I didn’t think I could handle the devastation of losing them. But I think I’ve always been in love with you, Emma.” Reaching out, he cupped her face. “From the day we first met. And I told you that you looked smart. And that I was glad you came into my life.”

A little squeak came out of her lips.

“Do you think I really came to Paris for some deal over a hotel? No.” He searched her gaze. “I was looking for you. When I found out about the baby, I asked you to marry me. Then I slept with you. I did all the things I swore I’d never do. I kept breaking my own rules again and again. Over you.”

“What are you saying?” she whispered.

He looked down at her in the moonlight, caressing her cheeks, running the pads of his thumbs over her pink full lips.

“Where you are concerned, from now on there is only one rule.” He smiled, and her image seemed to shimmer as he said hoarsely, “I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.”

“You—you really love me,” she breathed.

He saw the incredulity in her eyes, the desperate hope. He thought of her years of devotion going far beyond that of any paid employee. Thought of how she’d always been by his side. How she’d always had the strength and dignity to stand up for what was right. Even today.

Especially today.

“You’ve shown me what love can be,” he whispered. “Love isn’t delusion, it isn’t trying to avoid grief and pain, but holding your hand right through it, while you hold mine.” He took her hand, cradling it in his own. “All this time,” he said in a low voice, running his other hand along her pale translucent veil, “I was afraid of loving someone and losing them. I turned it into a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

She swallowed, shifting Sam’s weight against her shoulder. “It still could happen. I could get sick again. I could get hit by a bus.”

“Or you could stop loving me. You could leave me for another man.”

“Never,” she cried, then suddenly blushed, looking down at her wedding gown. “Er, except for just now, I mean. And I didn’t leave you for Alain, I never thought of him that way.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t marry a man who didn’t love me. Because I’ve realized it’s love that makes a family. Not promises.”

Slowly Cesare lowered himself to one knee, as he should have done from the beginning. “Then let me love you for the rest of our lives. However long or short those lives might be.” Taking her hands in his own, he fervently kissed each palm, then pressed them against his tuxedo jacket, over his chest. “Marry me, Emma. And whatever your answer might be, know that you hold my heart. For the rest of my life.”

“As you hold mine,” she said as tears ran down her face. Moving her hands, she cupped his face. And nodded.

“Yes?” he breathed, searching her gaze. “You’ll marry me?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling through her tears.

“Now,” he demanded.

She snorted. “So bossy,” she said with a laugh. “Some things never change.” Her expression grew serious. “But some things do. I want to marry the man I love. The man who loves me.” Her eyes grew suddenly shadowed as she shook her head. “And if anything ever happens to us...”

“We’re all going to die someday.” Cesare’s eyes were suspiciously blurry as he looked down at her. Beneath her veil, several pins had fallen out of her chignon, causing her lustrous hair to tumble wildly down her shoulders. He pulled out the rest, tangling his fingers in her hair. “The only real question is if we’re ever going to live. And from now on, my darling,” he whispered as he lowered his lips to hers, “we are.”

* * *

“Emma!”

“We’re over here!” she called, but she knew Cesare wouldn’t be able to see her in the villa’s garden. It was August, and everything was in bloom, the fruit trees, the vegetables, even the corn. She tried to stand up, but being over eight months pregnant, it wasn’t easy. She had to push herself up off the ground with her hands, and then bend around in a way that made Sam, now fifteen months old and digging in the dirt beside her with his little spade, giggle as he watched her flop around.

“Mama,” he laughed, yanking a flower out of the ground.

“Fine, go ahead and laugh,” she said affectionately, smiling down at him. “I did this for you, too, you know.”

“Fow-a.” With dark, serious eyes, he handed her the flower. Every day, he looked more like Cesare, she thought. But he’d also started to remind her of her own father, Sam’s namesake. She saw that in the toddler’s loving eyes, in his sweetly encouraging spirit.

“Emma!” Cesare called again, more desperately.